To Forget
by tearful-eye
Summary: there were nights he couldn't sleep at all ...and those were the best.'Sam's POV, small introspective fic: sam thinking too much again.


_This is my first Supernatural fic, so please be kind…I hope the 'chick-flick' at the end is not too much, but I just couldn't keep myself from writing it :-) _

_Supernatural and the boys are mine (didn't you know?) …at least in my dreams they are!_

_Another thing: English is not my first language, so I feel the need to warn you about all the mistakes there are in this fic, probably a lot…I'm actually very nervous to post in another language than my own! I hope the fic's okay though..._

…_and this is something of an 'introspective' (if this word exists) fic, so please tell me, what you think, as I'm not too sure about it. And in any case: I love reviews!_

_(Sam's POV)_

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to forget

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Everything he wanted was to sleep, if only for a few hours. He just wanted one night of undisturbed peace, he wasn't asking for more.

There were nights he wasn't sleeping at all, and those were the best, sadly.

Like now.

Sitting in an old chair, staring into some deserted, misty street and clasping an already cold cup of tea to his chest. His thoughts running around in circles inside his head. Thinking too much, that was what Dean always accused him of. Yes, he couldn't stop thinking once he'd started. It was the one thing he was good at, perhaps the only thing. Thinking, always thinking about things, over and over again; sometimes about the same thing the whole night long.

He couldn't stop thinking. He'd already begun when he was a child and since then he hadn't stopped yet; only taken a few breaks.

Oh God, Sam leaned his tired head back against the cold window and closed his eyes. It felt real against his skin. Cold, just like reality was. So cold…

Today had actually been pretty good so far, even if he hadn't managed to fall asleep yet. Not a minute. He knew because the clock on the other side of the room showed him every single one he spent awake doing nothing.

Time was crawling so slowly sometimes, so very slow.

The moment when he'd seen Jess over his bed was etched into his brain forever. It hadn't been thirty seconds but he knew every single detail of it, every smallest thing had been burned into his memory with the flames his girlfriend had been consumed with. This moment seemed to have been days long sometimes, and he saw it all the time when he could sleep…

And sometimes time went so fast.

He could sit and watch the hours fly by and the feeling in his chest was agony, such helplessness. The feeling of not to be able to anything when he'd been informed that his brother would die in a short time; when Dean had been beaten up in the room next to where he was held. Such helplessness. Sometimes time was all he had and he always tried to make the best of it, even if he couldn't.

Sam sighed again, a little louder. But when Dean moved in bed, he held his breath and lifted his head from the window, to stare at his big brother, who was now rolling around and reaching out his hand to where Sam had been lying a few hours ago.

Dean lifted his head when he didn't find him and blinked around the room, then: "Bad dreams?" His voice was slurred and heavy from sleep and he almost couldn't keep his eyes open; yesterday had been a long day.

"No, just can't sleep. But it's okay, go back to sleep, bro."

Dean didn't answer, he just sunk back down into the blankets and after a few seconds his breathing was deep and heavy, already sleeping again.

Sam was still watching his brother sleeping soundly again; 'bad dreams.' Yeah, it was better if he didn't sleep at all. He'd only wake up Dean with his screaming if he would.

_Bad dreams._ If it were only that. Sometimes it was, sometimes his dreams were just that: Nightmares. Fears manifested into strange dreamy occurrences.

Like killing the only thing he loved.

Like Jess telling him it was all his fault, staring at him with blood all over her beautiful body.

Like his brother finally telling him that he didn't need him anymore, that he wasn't helping in any way, being a nuisance.

Like his father confessing to him that he couldn't stand to be near him; that he was the reason mom had died.

Those were dreams he didn't care for, but they were better than other things he dreamt about, much better. Because he could wake up and know they weren't real. He feared all those things but so far nothing of it had happened. And perhaps nothing of it would come true. Perhaps. If he was lucky… which he wasn't, of course.

Luck was such a fragile thing, never around if it was really needed. It was only there to lull someone into a false sense of safety, and then it was gone again…

But there was one thing he did have: Fear.

The one thing everybody had and couldn't fight against as something real and corporal. There was no perfect move and killing blowwith the animal called fear. It just was. Sometimes it came out, became real. Sometimes it went away without leaving as much as a track. But sometimes it just stayed where it was, festering and whispering into the sleeping mind.

So sleep was a weakness in this aspect. Well, Sam knew his father and brother didn't care for weaknesses. The problem was that he had them, too many of them.

Bad dreams. Sometimes it was just that. _And sometimes…_

Abruptly standing up, Sam threw the blanket he'd had around his shoulders across the couch, put the cup on the table and hastily scribbled a note to his brother that he'd gone out. And he went out.

…_visions._

He couldn't stay in that room anymore, in that dusty air where his thoughts were slowly filling up the whole chamber, where he couldn't breathe. Where time was almost standing still and the ticking of the clock was mingeling with his thoughts and Dean's peacful breathing.

…_being someone else. _

As soon as he was outdoors, away from the sticky corridors and dingy rooms, he began to slow down. He had nowhere to go, he didn't know this place. And there wasn't much of a place, just a few houses, a road and a river. And it was the middle of the night.

…_seeing things that were about to happen._

So, to the river then. There was an old wooden bridge over it and Sam slowly walked towards it, listening to the river rushing along.

…_knowing about killings that were about to happen. Seeing the blood, feeling the pain of another man._

Sam shook his head to make the thoughts tumble all over each other. Perhaps if he confused them enough he would stop thinking them. he listened to the river again, walking to the middle of the bridge, tsoftly ouching the wooden railing, feeling it.

It felt nice to concentrate on the rushing sound of the water, the rolling waves hurrying along, carrying stones and leaves and branches with them, slowly washing the earth away. Washing his thoughts away, carrying them along until they reached the sea, where they were out of his sight and not in his brain anymore.

Out of sight, out of thought; if only it were that easy.

He had seen much and even now, when he wasn't seeing those things anymore that had scarred him as a child, they weren't out of his thoughts: His memories, another thing to dream about.

Horrible memories, like carved into stone, forever in his mind, coming out to gnaw at him when he wasn't standing guard to himself. Just like when he was asleep, at the weakest…

He really had enough to remember, enough things that could turn a man into a suicidal, psychopathic being. But he wasn't. Wasn't psychopathic at least. He didn't think he was suicidal, most of the time.

Sometimes perhaps.

Sometimes, Sam thought, looking down into the dark water under him. He leaned further over the railing, trying to watch his thoughts being washed away.

Jess pinned to the ceiling and being eaten away by the fire; drowned in that big wave over there, halfway to the ocean already.

All that blood, the killings, the screams, his brother's pain… everything was in those waves, moving along with the rhythm of the earth. Washing down, down, down…

The memories of his childhood. His father's anger, yelling at him, then his silence, stony silence. Not one word even when he left, only that one sentence: 'If you really leave, stay away for good. Don't bother to come back.'

It was all in the water now, lost in the depth and shadows of the river.

And even earlier: Being left behind at stranger's houses while Dean and his father left for some hunt. Being unwanted, the odd one out at school, everywhere, in his own family.

Being left at his uncle's. His uncle touching him, caressing him… Hurting him.

Being helpless.

Sam leaned back from the water and clasped the wood under his fingers tighter. At least he had tried to make those thoughts go away, even if he knew that the next night everything would come back, and the next and then the next again. All those fears, the visions, all those memories.

He couldn't ever forget.

The night was really dark around him now and the water wasn't too soothing anymore. The air was chilly he noticed and he had no coat on, was only wearing his sweatshirt, and only now he noticed that his body was shivering slightly.

Sam sighed again and rubbed his hands over his face, over his tired, burning eyes.

His thoughts were still there, inside of him crawling around like a live thing. An animal born from the fruitless ponderings, the worries. A dark, fat thing that was sitting inside of his head, making it hurt and it was clawing its fingers into him to make him think about the same things all over again.

How long Sam stood there with his head in his hands he didn't know, but after a while, he heard steps on the wooden bridge, coming nearer. Stopping in front of him, and then someone was reaching out to him. Dean. Touching his shoulder and without a word he was drawn into an embrace, against a warm chest.

He could feel the breath on his hair, when a hand pressed his head down onto a hard shoulder. He could feel the heartbeat under his ear, where it lay against the neck. Arms holding him closer and a hand stroking over his back.

And then the tears came.

How he got back from the wooden bridge to the dusty but warm bed, he didn't know. All he could remember were his brother's arms, warm and protective around him. His words, also warm and gentle, almost lulling him into sleep. Then he felt Dean kiss his forehead, when he tucked heavy blankets around him, which only smelled a little. A gentle whisper, while a warm hand smoothed his hair from his face.

Everything was sowarm just now, so warm _…unreal._

And then Dean's voice again: "It's okay to sleep now, Sammy. I'll watch over you. I'll keep those bad dreams of yours away, I'll keep your thoughts in check for tonight, okay… just sleep now, I'll be here, it's okay now."

And even if he wasn't six anymore, it really was. It was okay. Because Dean was here, and he would make him forget and do what the waves hadn't really accomplished: make him forget.

For a while at least.

Only for a little while.

Because nothing could take those dreams from him for long. Ever.

They had been written into his mind, the day his eyes had seen his mother being killed in front of him while her blood had stained his sheets and his innocent face…

Not so innocent anymore.

And then he slept.

_

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fin.

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End file.
